"How long did I sleep, lass?" he asked her.
Judging by the light he could see, it had been quite a few hours—long enough for the storm to stop and the clouds to clear. It was probably late afternoon, or, if he'd really let himself down, early the next morning. He frowned at that thought and got to his feet, and with a small snort, Beatha clambered up onto all fours once more.
"Never mind. Time tae go."
They walked together back out of the forest and onto the snow-covered road, then Murdoch climbed back onto Beatha's back and the two set off. The landscape was blanketed in pure white, undisturbed by footsteps with no recognizable landmarks as far as the eye could see. The snowstorm had ended, but its aftermath had completely covered the world, the fresh layers of snow looking like the whole of the Highlands had been erased in the storm's wake. They traveled along the road as best they could, first slowly and then picking up speed as Beatha grew confident even in the icy surroundings.
And then, from nowhere, the tower appeared. It was a wooden structure, an outpost manned by at least fifty men who were for now specks in the distance. A fire burned merrily nearby, rising above a small, grim-looking village whereno doubt the men of the outpost lived until their turn on the outskirts of the clan ended and they could return home. Murdoch's heart stuttered as he saw the flag waving from the top of the tower—twin snakes on a black background, the sinister symbol of Campbell, announcing his land's borders to the world.
"Here we go," he muttered to Beatha. "Be brave,mo chridhe."
Beatha replied to his affectionate nickname with a little snort which he was sure was her wishing him the same. Bolstered and reassured that, if nothing else, he still had his beloved horse by his side, Murdoch leaned forward in the saddle and encouraged her on.
They hadn't gotten far before a group of soldiers on horseback approached, their weapons drawn as they raced toward them. Murdoch had expected their hostility, and no fear rose within him as he slowed Beatha to a stop and, giving her an encouraging pat, slowly dismounted from her back. He did not reach for his own weapon, instead raising his hands, palm-up, in front of him, and stepping away from his horse to wait for the riders to reach him.
Two of the Campbell men jumped down from their horses' backs and rushed toward him, their swords pointed toward his throat. The clear leader of the group said, "Kincaid. I ken yer colors, lad. Ye've made a mistake in comin' here."
"Why would they send a lone rider?" the other man asked, narrowing his eyes as the still-mounted soldiers circled them. "What plot have ye brought with ye?"
"Ye're mistaken, gentlemen," Murdoch said calmly. "Aye, I wear the Kincaid colors, but think about it. Look how formally I am dressed. If I was here as a spy or with the intention of harmin' ye, why would I have come like this?"
The two soldiers looked at each other but didn't lower their weapons.
Murdoch stepped closer, internally surprising even himself with how calm he was. It was as though the ice had settled around him like armor, blocking out everything inside and out.
"I'm nae Kincaid," he said, and the twinge in his heart at the words was numbed by the cold.
"Then who are ye?" one of the men snarled.
He smiled. "I'm Murdoch Campbell. And ye need tae take me tae me father. At once."
Campbell Castle satin the center of the clanlands, resting atop a steep, craggy hill that blended seamlessly with the mossy stone that made up its walls. It was an ancient building, sturdy and full of ghosts, the cold wind whistling through the gaps like an eerie song.
Morag Caindach had been staying here for some time now, and every day that passed seemed to draw her further away from the rest of the world. The home where she had grown up had been elegant but cold, while Murray Castle had been warm and filled with progress, but Campbell Castle lacked the comforts of both. The dilapidated building was threadbare, left to ruin in the wake of Malcolm Campbell's defeat all those years ago, and only recently reclaimed by his brother. Renovations were the last thing on Alistair's mind, it seemed, as he sought only revenge.
"Sit up straight," her father hissed. "Dinnae ye dare embarrass me further."
Morag straightened her back, though she hadn't been slouching at all, and folded her hands on her lap. The smoky, fire-lit room hidden deep within the old castle was filled with northern lairds and chieftains, each here to beg their piece from Laird Campbell. Her father was no better than any of them, andthough she still played the obedient daughter, she regarded him so differently than she had before. While once he had been her idol—the only family she had and the heights to which she had aspired—it had all fallen away when she had discovered too late that he was no better than the rest of these vultures.
She'd been horrified, furious, and disgusted when her previous betrothed, Rolland Murray, and his family had accused her and her father of being spies for Campbell. Morag still could not understand how Rolland had chosen that strange, horse-loving common girl over her, but she wouldneverhave been desperate enough to ruin a potential marriage with such betrayal. But her father had brought her home, then a few days later, had her pack up her things and brought her directly here. When she had objected, he had delivered a hard blow to her cheek with the back of his hand that had sent her sprawling to the floor.
"Ye've already let me down once, lass," he had seethed. "Never question me. Understand?"
Morag hadn't cried. She'd apologized and promised to obey, tucking the pain and hatred deep within her heart. Her mother had always told her to be proud, and she would never let that go. It was the only power a woman like her had remaining.
She'd spent the following days until the bruise had healed with carefully applied rouge covering her cheek, not that any of the Campbell men had paid her any attention. She thought that Ian, Campbell's heir, had leered at her a few times, but she'd never managed to catch him in the act. At least she was safe from him.
As her father reminded her with scorn at every opportunity, she'd ruined any chance she had of securing a marriage to the likes of Ian Campbell, or any northern laird, by being spurned by Rolland. She knew he was right, and so the only option left toher was to play the dutiful daughter, locking any part of her that disdained her father's approach away deep in her heart.
Though the dizzying smoke was making it far too easy for Morag's mind to wander, she was drawn sharply back to the present as Alistair Campbell moved into the light, the shadows cast violently on his face highlighting every line and crag. His beauty had faded long before Morag had been born, she supposed, though its remnants only made him seem more horrifying to her. The man who stood in the center of the room now, grim and gaunt and vibrating with hate, was like a ghoul left behind in the world long after the soul had left.
Ever since Campbell had returned from his foray into Murray lands, his black temper had cast a dark plague upon the castle. The men who had escaped alongside him had been threatened with death if they revealed the truth of whatever had happened there, and certainly none were likely to tell Morag regardless, but rumors had a way of spreading. There were whispers that the missing Campbell children had surfaced at last, but they had sided with the Murrays, ready to destroy their own father. To lend credence to the rumors, Campbell was now rushing their war plans, determined that death could not come to the already-hated Murrays soon enough.
Desperate for scraps of truth, Morag had played the statue, listening hard wherever she could, her complicated feelings toward the Murrays tearing a contradictory fissure in her heart. She trulyhadcared for Rolland—not loved him, not at all, but it had bothered her that she'd been unable to break through her own icy armor to perhaps one day befriend him.
Before the accusations, Flora and Seamus had been nothing but kind to her, even when she was aloof and cold. Until Elsie had arrived, Morag had slowly been trying to soften, though that had all shattered when she'd seen the way Rolland looked at the horse girl. She regretted how she'd acted, and perhaps, givenmore time, she might have repaired it. But now, her father had thrown his lot in with Campbell, and that meant that Morag must put all of that aside and do the same, no matter what her heart said.
"The Murray Clan is made of vermin," Alistair Campbell spat with no preamble, and the low murmuring around the room fell to abrupt silence as everyone paid him immediate attention. "And what do we do whenever vermin enter the castle? Westomp it outbefore it can destroy everythin' we hold dear. We willburnthem,poisonthem,swallow them wholeif we must. Me brother should have slain every single one when he had the chance!"
